Cinders Falling
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: Set the same night as the post-credits scene in "Black and White" and includes memories of the episode from Torchwick's viewpoint and reminiscences about his first, somewhat unconventional meeting with the Queen. He then faces the truth of why he is so utterly in her power: "You are hopelessly (despairingly), madly (furiously) in love with her." I do not own RWBY!


_**Queen**_

_1. [n] the female ruler of an independent state.  
__2. [n] a woman regarded as excellent or outstanding of her kind.  
__3. [n] the most powerful chess piece that each player has.  
__4. [v] (__**queen it over**__) behave in an unpleasant/superior way toward._

Your name is Roman Torchwick, and your flame may just have flickered out.

You've had rough days before. You've been battered and beaten, and spent countless nights on the streets. You know what fear is, more than anyone else you know. And even though you lie in a too-warm bed with too many blankets in your too-expensive trousers (by way of pajamas), your life has not gotten much smoother.

The days all started blending together into one unpleasant haze once you barely escaped from Red, the Vigilante Scythe Girl. _This_ evening stood out, though: a strangely uninformed Faunus girl held a machete to your throat—and called you scum, as though _she_ wasn't the one plotting murder when all _you_ were doing was pulling a heist. You were kicked double in the face by another rogue Faunus, and barely escaped with your life in hand-to-hand combat with him and his girlfriend together. The only thing that went right was ironically when Red turned up again: if you're lucky (but when are you _ever_ lucky?), she won't be an issue anymore, because you finally shot her down.

But, as usual, there was a steep price to your small victory. Her android friend destroyed your allies and your fleet as retaliation, and made it look easy, too. So, you cut your losses and ran before you were killed as well. As far as you're concerned, there's no shame in flight. There is no code of honor more important to you than that of survival at _any_ cost, whether that means disobeying orders or not.

And as you stumbled back into your warehouse to count the Dust in your case (more a therapeutic practice than a sensible one), you thought that maybe—just maybe—you were home free for the night.

That was before the Queen showed up. _How very disappointing, Roman, _she sighed, half-mocking, half-scolding, all imperious—and you took in every word attentively, knowing that a missed clue could mean your death. You were a little preoccupied, though, because your name on her lips is something you wish you'd hear more often—in a very different context, and in a very, _very_ different tone of voice. Restlessly, you sigh and turn over in bed, burying your face in your pillow: Cinder Fall is not someone you enjoy thinking about.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

_We were expecting… more from you. _You remember the myths about succubi, the half-Grimm seductresses of lore, and wonder—not for the first time—whether or not she's really a demon in disguise. Your first meeting with her practically proved it, but she has yet to convince you again, because all she's done to you lately has been coerce you into working with those animals in the White Fang.

How old is she, anyway? You focus on that question, rather than the tantalizing memories of meeting her for the first time. However, with no definitive answer ready in your head—probably older than you by several years, you figure, but no less attractive for it—the question doesn't do much to occupy your mind, and you find yourself slipping back into the well-worn path down memory lane.

You're not going without a fight. You toss up any number of recent encounters with the Queen, desperately attempting to prove to your knowing self that the amount of abuse she's inflicted upon you _far_ outweighs the pleasure she's given on a single occasion. It doesn't seem to matter. You obstinately ignore the evidence you're throwing at yourself.

It's no use running anymore. You reluctantly face the bleak truth that you are hopelessly (despairingly), madly (furiously) in love with her—and let your mind wander as it will.

You've _always _been working for the Queen. You just didn't know it until fairly recently, when you were allowed to meet her for the first time. She was the woman who ran Vale from the shadows, and even though you'd known everything was connected for awhile, you had never thought there was a single person behind it all. Or that this single person was in fact a particularly striking female, in more ways than one.

After taking your coat and hat (you tugged off your own gloves), she sat you at a desk and told you—pacing, no, _sashaying _across the room—that she thought it was about time she promoted you to one of the privileged few who knew of her position. You confess you weren't really paying attention to her words at the time. As part of the underground, you're perhaps a little more familiar than you should be with scantily clad ladies, but if anything, that familiarity usually shields you from the intended effects of such attire. Cinder Fall was apparently an exception.

However precious your life is to you, you have a tendency to court danger, and you recognized even then that Cinder Fall is peril personified. It made her irresistible to you, and still does, even though you're forced to conceal it, even to yourself. You don't want her knowing that what she did with you that day still affects you.

With one cruel swish of her hips, she sat on the desk before you, looking down at you just as haughtily as she has ever since (a warning sign you foolishly ignored)—and yet her silken legs were crossed enticingly, importuning you to part them.

You hesitated, and you wish you had heeded your misgivings instead of giving in. You have never once, in your entire life, come across an action such as this that had no consequences. You sincerely doubt that such a thing exists. There are always strings attached, in your experience; when confronted with a decision, whether crucial or minor, the first question you ask yourself is always _is it worth it?_

What made you think, when temptation was brought before you, that this time would be any different than innumerable others?

You wish she had cast some sort of spell on you, or at _least _given you something to drink; then you would be able to say it wasn't all your fault. But instead, you looked up at her, a golden idol shining in the darkness, and you let her slip her fingers into the knot of your scarf. Your breath caught.

You unwound as quickly as the scarf around your neck. You lost your composure, and the Queen noticed, smirking—and she used the situation to her advantage, all the way. You were used to being the seducer, and not the seduced: she permitted you to wrestle feebly for dominance, an amused smile playing on her bloodred lips.

The room may have been small and dark and dingy, but it wasn't _messy_—until your struggle with her brought you both half-staggering, half-dancing, against the walls. It wasn't long before she forced you to surrender. Red lipstick was smeared on your mouth, your throat, as you panted; she had long since undone the buttons of your shirt with agonizing slowness, tongue darting out to moisten smudged lips. Her hands were deft and skilled at their work—she had plainly done this before—and before long, not a scrap of fabric decorated your body.

You've never been accustomed to wearing _nothing_. Even your other dalliances are usually hurried enough that you never seem to have time to fully undress. But here you rested on a desk, gazing at your new Queen with narrowed eyes, waiting for her to make a move (both eager and apprehensive). She looked you up and down coolly, burning eyes lingering wherever they pleased: though it is not your nature to be easily embarrassed, you were still inclined to cover yourself from her judgmental gaze.

After all,_ she _was still fully clothed, if that dress of hers could be considered proper clothing. It clung to her every curve, offering all sorts of fuel for the imagination—and no gratification. You clench your teeth even now to think she never afforded you so much as a glimpse; she merely sat on your bare waist, sharp red fingernails digging painfully into your pounding heart, and—after a searingly long pause—slid back.

You emerge from the memory with the same breathlessness and throbbing heart as if it had been a nightmare. To this day, you don't know why the Queen deigned to grace you with her body. The explanation you've settled for is that she knew _exactly _the effect this would have on you, and it was an unfortunately successful power play. She'd seen you at your most vulnerable, after all, and through your wordless submission, you willingly donned the collar whose leash she now holds.

Closing your eyes exhaustedly as one final thought surfaces, you allow the tiniest of smiles to play on your lips, resting a hand on the burn over your heart (which she gave you at the height of your interaction). She may have seen you with your guard down, but you've seen _her _at that point, too—and someday, maybe that little fact will help you find liberation.

**((Uh, yeah. First M rated fanfiction, because there was just no way to squeeze this into T like I'm used to doing. Heh. *inches away awkwardly* I hope I didn't just tarnish my good name…))**


End file.
